“A pusher on the Blackberry Estate’s been stabbed; he’s loaded with coke. He’s by the rubbish bins behind the fence.” Her voice isn’t like her voice. She gives the address and cuts the call; she won’t hang around. Her father’s stories about white police swell the roaring fear, about what they did to his countrymen; he’d warn her she could be blamed for her own assault. In any case, the police don’t need her story; that boy has enough coke on him for months in jail, years maybe. He’ll say nothing about her, surely. Attempted rape would mean extra years. She’ll say nothing to Martin, either; he comes from a different world; he’d make her go to the police or even tell them himself, not understanding the dangers. She could end up in jail. She’ll cope, she always does.

She lifts her head. The gray metal strips of a drain cover gleam dully from the gutter a few meters away. She inches the car forward and brakes just beside it; she looks around, checking the street is empty, then opens the door and, leaning out, drops the knife through the grating. She hears, or imagines she hears, a faint answering splash. She straightens, straps on her seat belt, and begins to drive; lucky it’s not far—it’s difficult to see through eyes streaming with angry tears. Fury and triumph are hot in her throat. She shucks off the wet flip-flops when she arrives and gets out. Fireworks bang and crackle beyond the house, shooting sparks high above the roof. She can hear Blake’s voice with the others, shouting loudly. The inhaler wasn’t needed after all; she could laugh if her stomach wasn’t twisting with longing for Martin and her kids, for alcohol and warmth.

The gravel of the drive digs into the soles of her feet. The great front door is open, wide open. Don’t these people care about what they have? She shuts the door behind her and looks about. The high-ceilinged hall disappears into shadows at the far end beyond the stairs; she could be in the entrance of some grand municipal building, surprisingly impersonal. There is a faint smell of damp, the floor is chilly under her feet. She came in through a door into the kitchen when she visited that first time, somewhere at the back of the house; the room had been warm and full of color, like Eve herself. This part of the house feels different, as though the place belongs to strangers; she could be an intruder gaining entrance. A dog barks from somewhere deep within the house. She runs up the thickly carpeted stairs in front of her to a wide landing. The door to her left opens onto a disordered room, an unmade four-poster bed heaped in clothes. She shuts that door and tries another, a bathroom that’s almost as big as their flat. She steps inside and locks the door behind her. The room is warm, the steamy air scented with the oversweet smell of ripe strawberries. There is an oval bath and a walk-in shower with shampoo bottles strewn on the tiled floor, pink liquid oozing out. Grace wipes a patch on the misty window, glimpsing a great bonfire down in the garden. Blake is scampering around the flames without a T-shirt and Charley is following him. Eve’s kids are there, of course, and a girl with blond hair waving her arms and shouting as if in charge of a game. That must be Izzy. The adults are at a table directly below the window, heads together; three of them are strangers to her. Martin’s shoulders are hunched forward, Eve is next to him, her youngest on her lap. They are talking, almost touching. Martin throws back his head in a laugh. The wave of anger takes her by surprise. If Martin spent more time writing and less having fun, they would have more money. They wouldn’t be living on a cheap estate; she might not have been assaulted just outside her home. He turns to Eve; she can’t see his face but imagines his laughter continuing in a carefree, happy chuckle. Her face burns. A different world, as she’d thought.